Chapter 36

Set Europe Ablaze

W e struck at lunchtime, just as the German officers were settling down for their hearty meal. It was Tardi’s idea. Sabotage was our game, and today we gave them a taste of their own medicine. I ran up the steps of the Town Hall—now the Gestapo HQ in Montlucon—two at a time, grenades in each hand, Sten gun slung over my shoulder. Several men, including Tardi, followed behind me. The rest of our team waited outside on guard, drivers ready in their seats.

Outside the door of the officer’s mess, I paused. German voices droned on the other side, accompanied by laughter and the chink of glasses. Fat cats bingeing on France’s finest food and wine. Bingo! I pulled the pins, yanked the door open, and hurled in two grenades. A brief glance inside revealed startled faces, men frozen mid-rise, hands instinctively reaching for pistols. I slammed the door shut.

‘Go!’ I shouted, and we sprinted down the steps and into the sun. The explosion ripped through the building, drowning out the shouts behind us. Tardi and several maquisards targeted other rooms, more explosions crashing in the air, followed by the rat-a-tat of gunfire.

I turned to see one of our men firing his Sten before darting to the waiting truck. Women ran into shops, seeking shelter. Startled shopkeepers peered out from doorways. My heart pounded in my chest, making it hard to catch my breath. I clambered into the truck beside Tardi as the rest of the men piled into the back, the air filled with the cries of wounded men.

As we sped off, locals flooded the road ahead. Our driver stamped on the brake as people, grinning and cheering, swarmed our small convoy. My ears rang from the explosions, and the driver honked the horn repeatedly while Tardi yelled at the crowd. ‘Clear the way! Vite! Vite! Return to your homes!’

The driver revved the engine, crawling through the slowly parting masses. Finally, we were through. The faces of the people had lifted my spirits—surprise, joy, and hope lit up their expressions, and for a brief moment, I felt the same.

‘That will show them,’ Tardi said, triumph flashing in his eyes.

‘We had the element of surprise. Such a pity we disturbed lunch.’

‘The last supper,’ Tardi muttered under his breath.

We were all angry and grieving—grieving for our fallen, for all the suffering, and for France. His thigh pressed against mine as we sat squashed together, his body warm at my side, and a soft, comforting glow spread in my chest. Tardi and I were the perfect match, the best of friends in no time at all.

‘I have an idea.’ He glanced at his watch, a wicked grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

‘What?’

‘We will drive to Cosne-d’Allier and stop the train. If we hurry, we should make it.’ He turned to his driver. ‘Vite!’

Our truck sped up, kicking up clouds of dust around us. ‘What do you intend to do? Not blow it up, surely.’

‘Non. We will stop the train, to show the people that the Germans are not the only ones who can do such things. We are taking back control.’

I liked the sound of that. ‘Let’s do it.’ I smiled at him, feeling a warm glow in my heart. He was like a brother to me, as if we’d known each other our whole lives. We were soul mates, so alike, and I admired him greatly.

We pulled up alongside the rail tracks on the outskirts of town. Tardi checked his watch. ‘The train is due.’

We jumped out, and the men grabbed their Sten guns, taking up positions along the line while Tardi stood at the front. The shriek of the train echoed through the air, and then the black engine chuffed around the bend. Tardi stood on the tracks, waving his arms. A young maquisard behind us waved a flag bearing the French colours, and the train slowed to a halt.

Tardi and his men opened the carriage doors and motioned for the passengers to step out. They checked papers, identities, and reasons for travel, ensuring no one was working for the enemy. Fortunately, we found no such person. I stood with a few of our men, watching the spectacle, biting my lip to keep from laughing.

The journey back to camp was quiet. The truck lolled and rocked along the bumpy, potholed tracks, and I leaned against Tardi, my head resting on the seat, my eyes heavy as lead. I think the people on that train received the message Tardi intended. We were gaining strength, fighting back, and winning. France would soon be ours once more.

* * *

The memory of the mission still lingered, the adrenaline slowly fading, but tonight was different. Tonight was a chance to forget, even if just for a little while. I gazed at the dress on the hanger, running my hand over the bodice, the nipped-in waist, and the full skirt. The soft silk brushed against my palm, and I smiled. It was my creation, fashioned from the parachute that had brought me down to French soil months ago. Make do and mend, as they say.

I took the dress from its wooden hanger and slipped it over my head. Perfect. Not that I could see properly—there was no mirror, aside from the tiny compact. Still, it was sheer luxury to wear a dress after being stuck in combats, dusty boots, and a shirt for months. I’d forgotten how it felt to feel like a woman.

I glanced at the few cosmetics I possessed, reached for my red Helena Rubinstein lipstick, and added a little dot on both cheeks, smoothing it in for a slight rosy glow. A dab on my lips, a dash of Chanel perfume, and I was ready. My hair was neat, loosely curled, resting on my shoulders, pinned back at each side.

‘Madame Andrée.’

Den stood to attention by the door of my bus, dressed in his finest SOE best. He held out his arm with a smile, then led the way to our seats.

The sight before me was magical. Tardi and his men had transformed our little camp. Tables had been set up, made from logs, draped with tablecloths and parachute silk, and the odd borrowed bed sheet. Flowers sat in small vases, and we had real silver cutlery. Den and Hubert had hung lights in the branches of trees overhead, rigging them up to batteries, creating an enchanted, twinkling forest.

I took my seat, and Tardi and Den sat on either side of me. One of the men, acting as a waiter, poured French champagne. A local chef had agreed to do the catering and, for safety, was kidnapped at gunpoint that very morning in case the Germans suspected him of supporting the Maquis. Everyone was dressed in their finest. I don’t think I’d ever seen the men looking so clean—or shaven, for that matter. The meal was wonderful, champagne flowed, and laughter filled the air.

‘How did you come by the champagne, Tardi?’ I asked, grinning as I raised my glass.

‘Local farmer supplied it. France’s finest. They stashed crates of the stuff away at the beginning of the war, for fear of the Germans taking it. One farmer had crates buried in his field!’ Tardi sipped his champagne and laughed.

One of the men rose from the table and returned with a fiddle. As he began to play, I sat, mesmerised. He was a tall, burly chap with long, unruly hair—usually rough-looking, unshaven, a tough fighter when it mattered, and a man of few words. But now, with his bow, he spoke of love, loss, and triumph. The haunting, ethereal music filled the air, the notes whispering the names of France’s fallen.

We all felt it. Each man sat motionless, listening, watching, remembering. An ache swelled in my throat, and tears pricked my eyes, spilling across my cheeks. Tardi took my hand and squeezed.

I sipped champagne, savouring the bubbles that fizzed on my tongue, warming my throat, while happy voices murmured all around. It was a surreal moment—a lull amidst war. A reminder that life goes on, no matter what. And I thought of Henri in Marseille. Our time was nearing. I felt it more strongly than ever before. We would soon be reunited, and France would be free.

Thank goodness there was no parachutage until the next night. I had a feeling I’d sleep soundly after the festivities. The men laughed as they recalled battles, boasting of the number of Germans they’d killed, some disagreeing while others teased them about it. How strange life was—one minute, we were in a heated battle, dicing with death, and the next, here we were, enjoying a celebratory meal. The world had turned on its heel. Nothing was as it ought to be, and I longed for peace and my husband.

August 1944

Chateau de Fragnes was a blessing. Tardi, Hubert, and I decided it was time for bricks and mortar—a solid roof over our heads. The Allies were fighting fiercely, beating the Germans back mile by mile, and we could afford the risk of a more permanent camp. I claimed my boudoir, complete with an adjoining bathroom. Life now came with a touch of luxury. Sophie had her work cut out for her with rooms to clean, but when I mentioned it, she remained unfazed.

The day after we moved in, I waltzed into the kitchen to find Tardi standing at the head of the table, studying a map.

‘Bonjour, Andrée.’ He smiled, his blue eyes sparkling with energy.

‘Bonjour. What’s this?’ I sank into a chair and poured myself some coffee.

‘The next target.’ Tardi jabbed his finger at a specific point on the map. ‘The bridges here, at Cosne-d’Allier.’

Operation Dragoon was in full swing. Tens of thousands of Allied soldiers had landed on our southern shores and were now fighting their way north. The Germans were retreating, heading through the Rhone Valley. We were tasked with espionage: blowing up bridges, specific factories, and depots to hinder the enemy’s efforts.

I shifted closer to Tardi, leaning over the map. ‘We began in Cosne-d’Allier,’ I said, recalling the early days with Hubert. I remembered the bridges well. ‘Intelligence reports say the Germans are heading for the Belfort Gap—a direct route through the mountains back to Germany.’

‘Exactly,’ Tardi said. ‘Take out the bridges, halt them in their tracks.’

I nodded. There was no time to wait for nightfall, not with the Germans retreating so swiftly.

Tardi carefully folded the map and tucked it inside his jacket pocket. ‘We go now.’

* * *

Cosne-d’Allier was a sleepy little town. We drew up by the first bridge and Tardi, Schley, and Alsop grabbed the explosives from the back of the truck. We’d collected our stash from one of the drop zones where we’d buried it some weeks ago. Tardi ordered several of his men to guard both sides of the bridge.

Blowing up bridges wasn’t easy. We’d learned the knack during SOE training—you had to identify the weakest point and plant the explosives for maximum damage. We had to move quickly. As Tardi fetched ropes from the truck, I instructed the others.

‘Take the explosives and strap them around your waists,’ I said, demonstrating. ‘We’ll climb down the struts and plant the devices.’

Tardi secured the ropes, and we scaled down the side of the bridge along with Alsop and Schley. Once the explosives were in place, we hauled ourselves back up. I left Tardi to set the fuse.

As I made my way along the bridge, I noticed townsfolk emerging, curious about the commotion. Men, women, and children streamed toward us, some even making their way onto the bridge.

I waved my arms frantically. ‘Get back!’ But they stood there, smiling, gawping—some even cheering.

‘Get them off the bridge,’ Tardi ordered.

The men rallied, moving the people back. Some complied willingly, while others were too excited by our activities.

‘We are free, yes?’ one woman asked, her face bright with hope. ‘France is free?’

‘Non, Madame.’ I tried to explain. ‘We’re here to blow up the bridges. The Germans are retreating, and they’ll use these bridges to escape.’

Tardi lit the fuse and sprinted toward us. ‘Get down!’

I crouched behind the truck, hands over my ears. The explosion came—a thunderous boom that shook the ground beneath us, sending debris and dust flying through the air. My heart pounded with adrenaline, the thrill of sabotage. We were a persistent thorn in Germany’s side. ‘Try crossing that!’ I yelled, and Tardi laughed.

* * *

The night was dark, the waning moon a crescent smothered by clouds.

‘Andrée,’ Tardi said. ‘You and Pierre will take out the sentry at the west gate, and Jean-Paul and Claude will handle the east gate.’

I nodded. There were two guards on duty tonight at the armaments and munitions store in Mont Mouchet. I recalled my training—hand-to-hand combat, killing a man with my bare hands. I knew what to do but doubts bubbled inside me. Sweat trickled down my neck as we slithered through the undergrowth, the damp leaves muffling our movements.

The guards marched back and forth, their ramrod silhouettes barely visible in the velvety darkness. After twenty minutes, we were close enough to strike, but we had to wait for the right moment.

The crunch of jackboots on gravel echoed in the silence. My palms were wet, my mouth dry, heart pounding in my ears. When the guard in front of me turned suddenly, his hands poised on his rifle, I acted on instinct. I moved quickly, striking his neck hard with the side of my hand, watching as he crumpled to the ground.

Gasping for breath, I looked down at his lifeless face—so young, just some mother’s son. A sharp sting in my right arm snapped me back. I glanced down to see blood trickling over my wrist, the fabric of my jacket frayed where the bayonet had sliced through.

Dizziness washed over me, my legs heavy and unsteady. I signalled the others to proceed, but as I turned to Pierre, I staggered and fell into his arms.

‘Andrée, you’re hurt.’

‘I’ll be all right,’ I mumbled, barely recognising my own voice. He helped me back to the truck and hitched me up onto the seat. Then, he wrapped his scarf around my arm.

‘Keep your arm up—it will slow the blood,’ Pierre said, glancing back toward the factory. ‘They’re coming now.’

He jumped in beside me, holding my arm up as I struggled to keep it elevated. I hadn’t the strength.

‘Andrée, what happened?’ Tardi’s voice was urgent as he climbed in next to me.

I tried to speak, but no words came out. The truck lurched forward, bouncing over rough ground as voices swirled around me. Tardi pulled me close, his arm around me, but my vision blurred, and then... nothing.

* * *

Voices floated in and out of my consciousness—Tardi’s and another I didn’t recognise. My eyes were too heavy to lift, my body like lead, nausea rolling through me. When I finally managed to open my eyes, lamplight glowed, and I glimpsed the hazy outline of a man with black spectacles and grey hair standing over me.

‘Ah, Madame. Welcome back.’

My mind was foggy as I tried to piece together what had happened. My arm throbbed, and I squeezed my eyes shut, gritting my teeth. Where was I? I seemed to be lying on a table, the hard surface beneath me unfamiliar.

‘Stay there, Andrée.’ Tardi stepped forward, his voice gentle. ‘You’ve hurt your arm, but the doctor has stitched the wound. You’ll be all right, but you must rest.’ His hand on my shoulder was warm, reassuring.

‘Madame Andrée, I’ve bandaged the wound and put your arm in a sling,’ the doctor said. ‘You must keep it elevated for a few days. I’ll check on you then, but I think it will heal well.’ He smiled warmly and handed me a glass. ‘Brandy—it will help.’

I drank it slowly, feeling the fiery warmth spread through me, dulling the pain. ‘I missed the fireworks.’

Tardi laughed. ‘You did. And it was a grand display.’

‘Thanks, Tardi.’ Lady Luck had smiled on me once again. It could have been worse. But as I recalled the guard lying dead at my feet—just a boy—I couldn’t shake the sadness. But we were all ‘just’ something—just a woman, just a man, just doing what we knew in our hearts to be right. We had to fight on, never look back.

My eyes swam, and Tardi gently wiped away a tear with his finger, taking my hand in his. His fingers were warm, wet. I forced a smile, despite my crumbling resolve. Having good friends to take care of you was a blessing, but sometimes, the pain and sadness overwhelmed even those blessings, leaving you to dwell in the darkness.